Pain and Proposals
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: Sequel to Sorrow and Syringes: Back from the war, John meets a woman named Mary Morstan. Yet how will everything change when someone from his past returns into his life? And can Sherlock stifle his addiction enough to reconcile with his friend? M for drugs and eventual adult content.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! Welcome back, to the final story in this trilogy! (yeah, I know I said there would be 4, but I just couldn't get myself to write the other one-shot I had planned.) Anyway, This story will end happily, I promise! Thanks to my beta, Ivory Winter, and to everyone who reads this! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing :)**

The bedsit was small, dark, and furnished with military-like simplicity. Perfect for the ex-army doctor. His once-blonde hair had faded under the bright, Afghani sun, and his skin had turned to sandpaper. His eyes kept their blue colour, yet they had seen too much to be considered the same eyes as before. It made sense; after the four years of school and three, eight-month terms in Afghanistan, he was a different man.

When John returned to London after being shot, he felt like he was going insane. His mind never turned off its "war" setting; it always flew at a hundred miles per hour, noticing every movement and flinching at every noise, regardless of wheather it sounded like an IED or not. It was hell. He would wake up at night, drenched in sweat, his mind still reeling from nightmares, his shoulder and leg aching terribly. He would get up, try to calm down, and spend the rest of the night sitting in front of the single window in his bedsit, waiting for the sun to rise.

His days weren't much better. He took a walk in the morning, trying to stick to a routine. He would watch people laugh and smile, none of them having any idea what life was like somewhere else. They didn't understand the pain and sorrow he had been through. They didn't understand how it felt to watch a man die under your hands, a man you had laughed and chatted with only minutes before.

His head constantly ached, pounding day and night. His shoulder would burst into sudden flashes of fire at the most random moments, and his psychosomatic limp hindered hima t every turn. He tried medication for the headache, but nothing worked.

Of course he had a therapist. Her name was Ella Jones, and she was the one stable item in his life. She would start each session asking about the nightmares. He had learned not to lie after she gave him a glare on their first day. He could tell her the details, and she would either smile proudly if they were getting better (as if he could control his subconscious) or scratch down another prescription of sleeping medication; meds he never took. He could tell Ella noticed the growing bags under his eyes, but the few times she tried to push the issue, he protested and subsequently avoided any further involvement.

Then it was on to his life. They talked about his routine (it was her idea in the first place) and how he wanted to change it, if he did at all. Sometimes they would discuss literature. John had to try to stave the boredom with reading. He had gotten through more than he had ever read before, and it was always nice to talk about them. Maybe they would chat about football (Ella was a die-hard Chelsea fan, much to John's dismay. It was the topic of many light-hearted arguments) or discuss the weather. But somehow, everything led to a single word.

Sherlock.

Ella tried to get him to open up, to talk about his past, but he never budged. She knew there was more than just a duty to his country and a love of saving lives that threw him into the army, and also a reason he was as broken as he was.

A bullet to the shoulder only hurt a man in his body.

A life in a war zone only hurt him in his mind.

But a lost love, that hurt a man in his vulnerable soul.

And Ella knew this. Yet nothing was ever said.

_"John, let's discuss Sherlock."_

_"Ella, I've told you already, the answer is no." John sighed and leant back into his soft chair. Rain was pattering on the windows, and Ella was giving him that sympathetic frown she always wore when he refused to talk about Sherlock._

_Ella shifted in her seat. "John, it's time you let someone in. You can't bottle it up forever."_

_"Yes, I can, and I will. I talk to you about everything in my life. You know me like no one else-"_

_"Sherlock knew you better," Ella said, giving him a pointed stare._

_John blanched. "But I didn't know him," he whispered in a moment of memory. _

_Ella scratched that down. "So, did that factor into your breakup?"_

_"STOP IT!" John shouted, standing unevenly on his hurt leg. "We're _not_ talking about him. I tell you _everything,_ but this is mine. So stop prying."_

_"Prying is my job." Ella was unfazed by his outburst._

_"Please," he said, sitting back down. "Let it go." He ran his hand through his hair. "Where were we? _Paradise Lost?"

_Ella sighed, but relented, and their soft, calm conversation continued._

He met with Ella for an hour every day. Sometimes he would talk to Harry on the phone. That was the only human interaction he had. Who would want to be seen with a crippled, broken, army doctor? All of his med school friends had forgotten him (he didn't have many, after all he was suffering from the...Sherlock thing.)

But then, Ella turned everything around.

"John," she said one sunny afternoon, "I'd like you to meet someone."

John lifted his head. "What? A new doctor?"

Ella smiled. "No. My friend. Her name is Mary Morstan, and-"

"No, Ella."

"John, hear me out. She's a wonderful girl, and nothing needs to happen, but it would be nice to see some new faces, right?"

"I don't want to. Besides, isn't that a bit unprofessional," John questioned.

"It's just an idea. Think of it as another type of therapy. We tried group therapy, remember? And that didn't exactly work out. If you only meet with me, are you really ready to re-enter civilian life?"

John had to acquiesce.

"Fine. But just once. Agreed?"

Ella nodded, smiling.

John met Mary for coffee the following Tuesday. It was a cloudy, as was London. Ella had told him to sit at a specific table, and soon he saw a woman enter adn walk towards him, smiling.

Mary Morstan was pretty. She wasn't stunning, but beautiful nonetheless. She had shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair that was swept to the side in a ponytail, and big, sparkling blue eyes. She was short and a bit plump, but still cury and feminine. Her face was round and she had a ski-jump nose. Not his type, but nice enough. Her style was that of a woman who didn't care about labels. John saw nothing on her from any designer label, but the skirt-and-sweater ensemble was attractive.

"Hello," she said, her accent showing she was, in fact, Welsh. "I'm Mary."

John stood and shook her hand. "John Watson," he returned. "Can I get you something?"

Mary chuckled and gave him a request, which he hastened to get. It wouldn't hurt to make a good impression.

When he had the coffees, he returned to where Mary was sitting, smiling at her thanks.

"So, what do you do?" he asked casually. It was terribly awkward, he decided, to know nothing about someone and suddenly strike up a conversation with them.

"Primary school teacher," Mary replied. "You?"

John tensed. "Um...currently unemployed. I was a doctor in the army, though." John wondered if she would run off. Many-a-person had been scared away by the army idea before. Half his class had avoided him because of his "hero complex" or whatever. But Mary just nodded.

"Interesting. I'll bet you liked helping people," she replied.

John grinned. "It was one of the best parts. Being able to say that I saved lives of countless men is a great feeling."

Mary laughed. "Indeed." She twisted her cofffe mug. "Do you miss it? Sorry if I'm being pushy, and if you don't want to talk about it-"

"No, no it's fine," John soothed. "Sometimes, I miss Afghanistan itself. It was a beautiful country."

He went on to describe Afghanistan, taking inspiration from the memories of the blistering sunlight and the calming evenings; the waves of sand and the sparse, but beautiful trees.

Mary exhaled and smiled as he finished. "Wow, that was beautiful. You really have a knack for words." She blushed.

"Thanks." John blushed too.

The conversation strayed to Mary's work, and John found himself in gales of laughter as Mary talked about some of her favourite pupils. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She lit up when she talked about her kids. She talked a lot with her hands, and smiled constantly.

"-And then, he just got up and left!"

John snickered. "That's fantastic, Mary. God, I haven't laughed this much in _ages_."

Mary nodded. "Same."

John looked at his watch. The coffees had been finished long ago, and many of the customers had left. They had talked for three hours.

"Um, can we meet again? It was really lovely talking to you," John smiled.

"I'd love that," Mary said quietly. She grinned broadly, pushing her hair out of her eyes, the blue iris' suddenly glinting. "It's a date."

John spluttered, taken aback by her words. Yet as the words sunk in, they made him smile with delight. "Of course."

Mary got up and John followed her to the door.

"I had a fantastic-"

"It's been great-"

They said at the same time. Both laughed.

"Thank you," Mary said, moving forward to place a chaste peck on his cheek. John's blush grew more pronounced. "Same time next week?"

"Definitely." John waved and walked away, grinning broadly.

It wasn't until he rounded the corner to his street that he realised his headache was gone.

"So, John, tell me about your past."

John sighed. He knew this day would come eventually. It was their third date together. John looked down at the pavement as they walked through Regent's Park.

"Mary, you know about my past."

"No, I know about your school, nothing about your family." Mary wrapped her hand inside John's. "I jsut want to understand you."

John sighed. "Okay, what do you want to know?"

Mary smiled. "Do you have any siblings?" she prompted.

"An older sister, Harriet. We don't get on, mostly because the few times I've tried to talk to her she's been piss drunk. And after..." John looked down, overcome by memories of his mother's death.

"John?" Mary asked, worried. They'd stopped, and Mary moved them over to a bench.

"Sorry," John said, taking a deep breath, "anyway, Mum had died earlier of alcohol poisoning, and...I just worry about Harry. I don't want her to go the same way as Mum." John felt his eyes prickle.

"Oh, John..." Mary whispered, pulling him closer. John let himself be enveloped in her warmth, trying to push away the pain. "I'm sorry," Mary murmured into his hair.

John pulled back and smiled. "Thanks." Head cleared of the terrible memories, John began to tell Mary about life in Fawsley. He talked about all the people, the shops, and the way of life in such a small village. He spoke of his favourite places, including the woods, even though he avoided _that_ topic.

He very nearly spoke of Sherlock a total of four times, but he refrained each time. He didn't know if he could tell Mary just yet. How was one to explain it?

So he took the well-worn path of avoidance, and soon both he and Mary were in stitches, remembering the innocent life he used to live.

And as John sat on the park bench under the blue sky, hand intertwined with Mary's, he was happy, and he was falling hard for Mary.

One day, after their eighth date (dinner at a restaurant called Angelo's) Mary offered John to come up to her flat for coffee. John knew where it would lead, and readily agreed. They made love, and spent the night in each others arms.

John awoke, feeling elated. The night had been incredible, and he was curled up around a beautiful woman. He gently ran his fingers through her hair, reveling in it's silky quality. It was just as luscious as-

No.

John had very nearly blocked that entire part of his life out of his mind. The soft, broken boy who had left for Afghanistan had been patched up with pain and suffering, moulding him into a stronger man. He could bottle up those past feelings, almost ignoring them altoghether.

Besides. His shoulder wound hurt more.

Rolling it around, he made a mental note to stop sleeping like that. Maybe he and Mary could face the other way next time.

John froze. Was he thinking that far into the future? Could he see a future? Indeed, he could. Mary was an incredible girl, and John could already imagine a calm, peaceful life with her. It would be wonderful.

John smiled and extracted himself from the wound-up covers. Of course, he needed to be certain about his decision, and it might be better to wait. He was being too hasty.

As he padded into the kitchen of Mary's small flat, he noticed a picture on one of the mantelpieces. It was of Mary and another woman, both smilign happily, arms around each other. The picture was recent, and the unknown woman had wild, curling, back hair and coco skin.

Suddenly, John felt hands wrap around his waist, and a kiss pressed to his neck.

"That's my best mate, Sally Donovan," May murmured, pulling him closer. "You should meet her someday."

John grinned and turned, capturing Mary in a deep kiss, wrapping his own arms around her shoulders. Pulling away, he said: "How about some breakfast?" His stomach rumbled in agreement, and Mary giggled, her voice chiming like bells.

"Of course. Tea?" She released John and walked towards the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as John grunted in agreement.

The kettle soon boiled and John found two mugs, filling them with water and plopping a teabag in each. As he leaned against the counter, watching Mary flutter about, gathering various ingredients, he thought about how natural the scene seemed. If this was going to be his future, he would enjoy it immensely.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Bonjour! Today was my second day of school, and I've got a shitload of work :( On the bright side, I've finished off another chapter! Thanks again to my beta, who fixed the many mistakes of this chapter (it was embarrassing how many there were...) But, I hope you enjoy this chapter! **

**Disclaimer: yeah...no.**

Sherlock would never tire of the feeling. The rush through his veins, the pounding hin his head, even the obnoxious ringing for the first few seconds only added to the effects. He could do anything, find anyone, and that's exactly what he did.

Jim continued supplied him with drugs, and the "reduced rate" was still in place, but Sherlock had bigger things to do than wallowing in his misery. Seb was a long-forgotten memory, no more than a whipser in his mind on the bad days. John, too, had taken a backseat to the euphoria. Sherlock rarely bothered to eat unless Mycroft came to his dank, grubby bedsit, and sleep only came when he dropped from exhaustion.

But what to do? That was always the question. If Sherlock let himself get bored...bad things would happen. The last time, he had burnt down a set of flats in Whitechapel for an experiment. In his defense, they were foreclosed, but Mycroft was rather upset when he found out.

It was a cold day in February when he found his calling. Crime.

He was walking through the streets high, trying to figure out an experiment, when he saw a set of bright lights in the distance. Police lights.

Rushing over, Sherlock stood behind the yellow crime tape and obsereved the scene. Woman, aged thirty, judging by her clothes and face, lying dead on the pavement, spread-eagle. Yet Sherlock couldn't see the cause from his vantage point, so he slipped under the tape and walked towards the forensics men currently photographing everything.

Ah, much better. Sherlock could see the woman had what looked like a gunshot wound to the abdomen and another wound on the head. Conclusion: bled to death from wound to abdomen, head wound made post-mortem due to lack of blood. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why?

Ring, clean and gaudy, much more so than the plain, gold chain on her neck and cheap earrings, yet clothes are simple and nondescript. Conclusion: an independent woman with a rich husband, doesn't like using his money to get by. Fingernails chipped but painted, so takes pride in appearance but doesn't use the husbands money for indulgences such as manicures. Conclusion: self-righteous.

Sherlock looks around at the scene. A man stands off to the side, face red from crying, in a stylish and expensive suit. Husband. Twiddling with the ring, pulling it on and off his finger. Sentiment? No. Guilt? Much more likely. Shirt tucked in messily, jacket rustled. An affair. Obvious. Hands: powder on the fingers-gunpowder. Conclusion: shot the gun that killed the woman.

Sherlock smiled. Interesting. He solved a case. And it was marginally fun. His train of thought was broken as a man with greying hair walks up to him.

"Excuse me, who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock lookec the man up and down. "Hello Sergeant. You've arrested the mistress, I assume?"

"W-what?" the man spluttered.

"Obvious, isn't it? Victim comes home from work, finds the mistress leaving the husband, confronts them, mistress leaves, but our victim doesn't like that. No, she wants a confrontation. Yet she goes for the husband. She was always jealous of his money. They fight, husband shoots her, she bleeds to death. Yet where's the blood? The body was moved into the street and purposefully hit by a car, made it look like an accident. Now where's the mistress?"

The man narrowed his eyes. "You're high, aren't you?"

"Irrelevant. Where is the mistress!"

The sergeant faltered, but called over his superior and muttered to him, never taking his eyes of Sherlock. The superior nodded and walked towards the husband, who turned pale-white in a matter of seconds. Sherlock smirked. The sergent gasped.

"How did you know that?"

"I observed," Sherlock said shortly. He turned to leave, but the Sergent caught his arm.

"No matter how brilliant you are, I can still take you in for drug usage. Any fool can see you're using."

Sherlock glowered. "I just caught you a murderer. I think you can let me off."

Sighing, the Sergeant let go, and put out his hand instead. "Sergeant Lestrade. Good job, I guess," he said with a smile.

Sherlock hesitantly took the hand for a brief shake, before nodding and turning around. His high was wearing off, and he needed more.

A week later, Sherlock was feeling the dregs of boredom creep on once again. Even the highs were becoming dull in comparison to the rush he had felt whilst solving that case. An idea sprung as he shot up, and he quickly pulled on his coat and rushed over to New Scotland Yard.

"I'm looking for Sergent Lestrade," he said brusquely to the temp at the desk.

The woman nodded and pointed him down the hall. Walking into a small office, Sherlock found the man from the other night. He smiled, but the man seemed less pleased.

"God, you're back," Lestrade said, turning back to the papers on his desk. "You were right, you know, about the mistress."

"Of course I was right. I always am."

Lestrade looked up sharply. "Well why are you here? Come to gloat?"

"No, I want a case."

"Impossible."

"You've seen what I can do, Sergent. I can tell more about a person in one look than most people can find out in a week. Now give me a case before I go insane," Sherlock growled quickly, leaning onto the desk.

"I'll admit, you are brilliant, but you're a druggie, and I won't work with someone like that."

Sherlock blanched. "So because of a side habit I can't help you protect the city?" he replied, trying to appeal the man's protective nature.

Lestrade was adamant. "Get clean, and maybe we'll talk."

Sherlock regarded the police man for a few seconds, trying to figure him out. Wouldn't most people take him up? Deciding to think on it, he swirled out of the room in a huff. he spent the next two days contemplating. Was the high from solving cases better than the high from cocaine? Sherlock knew the withdrawl from cocaine was hell. Would he be willing to go through with that?

Part of his brain was focused on the cocaine, telling him anything else would simply inhibit him. Yet another part, a part thatwas steadily growing larger, thought about the chances he would have. He could get in the minds of serial killers and mass murderers. He would be able to discern the different types of weapons used for murder. He could do even more tests on cadavers, and maybe even have access to a morgue of some sort.

Now _there_ was an idea.

On the fifth day of continous thought, broken only by a need for nourishment on the third day (courtesy of his brother), Sherlock made up his mind.

It was tedious, of course, to ask for help, but it was also needed. After throwing his current stash into the fire, he sent off texts to both Mycroft and Jim, the latter of which he was dreading the response. Both answered swiftly.

_I'll send over a therapist to watch you for as long as it takes. May I ask what brought this on? -MH_

**You'd better be joking, Sherly. I'll be over to talk in a few. We can sort this out, sweetheart. -xJM**

Sherlock responded to Mycroft, and waited for the confrontation.

Jim Moriarty wasn't someone you said no to. Even at a young age, his empire was streching far and wide, slithering into the darkest corners of every society. Primarily, he focused on drugs, picking up where his father left of, but he had had a taste of crime, and was itching for more.

Sherlock's text had irked him, to say the least.

His precious little pet, his gorgeous little slut, decided he didn't need any coke? Bullshit. Sherlock had turned him down once, and that didn't go down well. So, Jim decided to pay his friend a visit and set him straight.

He didn't bother to knock as he stepped into the grimy flat. Urgh. He really needed to put his pet in a better place.

"Sherly?" he tinkled, eyes cold. "Are you here? I think it's time for a talk."

"Not now, Jim. I've told you: I'm done." Came the voice from a dark corner, untouched by the single lighbulb.

"Aw, Sherly," Jim tutted, "You don't mean that." He walked towards Sherlock, placing a hand on the tall man's arm. "We both know how much you need me, how much you need the drug. It's the only thing to help you forget _him_, remember?"

Sherlock only scoffed. "I'm stronger than you think, Jim. I don't need to be dependent on mediocre substances."

Jim knelt down next to Sherlock. Fine. He wanted to play dirty? Jim would be glad to. "So you're saying that you want to remember Watson? Little Johnny-boy? The boy who broke that fragile heart of yours, the one who left you, crumpled in the dust, as he went off to war? He didn't love you, didn't even like you." Jim laughed. "And then, who was next? Sebastian Wilkes, correct? The fake, the fraud. The man who put you back together, used you, and left you to die." Jim pulled Sherlock's face towards his. "I'm the only one who stays, Sherly. I _care_, okay?" He patted Sherlock's head, hoping to make the man see sense.

Sherlock jerked back. "I don't need you, and I don't want you. Get the fuck out of my flat," he hissed, pointing at the door.

Jim stood, gracefully. "This time," he whispered menacingly, "I won't be there to pick up the pieces. I'm done, trying to fix you." He let out a laugh. "Don't come running to me when you want more, or when you're tired of this dull life. I won't be there to help you."

Sherlock nodded, continuing to point at the door. Jim felt anger bubble up inside him. "Don't say I didn't warn you, Sherlock Holmes. You can't handle what I dish out. You'll be dead before you know it," he hissed.

Jim sighed, deciding to leave. Sherlock's hissy fit wasn't worth his trouble. Jim wasn't scared Sherlock was set on quitting. He knew Sherlock, the addict. Nothing would keep him away.

Entry 1. Day 1  
Doctor Christopher M. Ford, M.D.  
Patient: Sherlock Holmes.  
Reason: Cocaine Addiction.

Patient is genial enough, if a bit rude. Seems to be part of his nature. Set up a schedule, trying to take his mind of cocaine. Won't talk, unrelated to addiction. Hopefully, progress will be made shortly.

Entry 2. Day 4  
Cravings have begun. Patient is irritable and anxious, feels as if he might die if he doesn't get any cocaine. Must stifle soon, or he might try something desperate.

Entry 3. Day 6  
Patient experiencing fatigue. A promise, as the more he sleeps the less he craves it. Tried leaving the flat: bad idea. Patient became hostile towards any and all passerbys, making three women cry and two men nearly punch him.

Entry 4. Day 9  
Patient seems to be getting better. Less cravings and more sociable. Still hostile, yet not as much so towards me. I believe we are on the mend.

Entry 5. Day 15  
Bad day. Patient snuck out and attempted to find drugs. He was found in a back alley, scrabbling at the ground, searching for the drug. Have him restrained.

Entry 6. Day 20  
Definitely on the mend. A Sergeant Lestrade of Scotland Yard came over with a cold case file for Sherlock. Apparently Mr. M. Holmes asked for it, giving Mr. S. Holmes some stimulation. Patient is much more genial with the promise of work.

Entry 7. Day 30  
Attempted to talk about past addiction and childhood. Patient immediatly clammed up. Hiding something, must find out.

Entry 8. Day 36  
Have begun to speak of childhood, although very simple admissions. When the name "John Watson" (see file, pg 34) was said, patient froze up. Some sort of connection there.

Entry 9. Day 40  
Nothing heard about John Watson, or anything about past. The name Sebastian Wilkes (Pg 89) brings on the same, if a bit less damatic, response.

Entry 10. Day 45  
Avoided childhood, patient quasi-genial. Spoke of chemistry and anatomy, patient seemed interested.

Entry 11. Day 57  
Patient found notes, became angry at observations. Dislikes being referred to as "patient". Declares he, in fact, is not a patient.

Entry 12. Day 62  
Patient is more in control of his mind and body. The depression has sated, and the avoidence has stimed. Patient finished with treatment, hopefully ready to re-enter society.

Dr. Christopher Ford, M.D.

Sherlock was feeling better than he had in a long time. Without the hinderance of cocaine (why had he ever started?) he was on top of his game. Lestrade came by with cases every once in a while, and sometimes Sherlock would visit the crime scenes, although Lestrade discouraged it; said he didn't have the power to let a civilian into the scene.

Mycroft visited one day, his mouth curling in disgust at the filthy living area. "Sherlock," he said as a greeting, "we must get you a new flat."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "I'm perfectly fine where I am."

"I'm not letting you stay here another minute. Besides, I have found the perfect place."

"Where?"

"221 Baker st. Run by a Mrs. Andrea Turner."

Sherlock looked back down at the case file. "Don't want to."

"Too bad, you've already signed the lease. I won't have you working for Scotland Yard in a dump like this."

"I don't work for Scotland Yard!"

"Then what do you do?" Mycroft demanded, placing his hand over the notes, grabbing Sherlock's full attention.

"I've decided to be a Consulting Detective," Sherlock sniffed.

"What?"

"It's the name for what I do. I consult the police when they're idiots."

Mycroft nodded, used to his brother's insane notions. "Well, then. Will you take the flat?"

Sherlock sighed. He hated taking favours from his brother, but he, too, was getting tired of the current bedsit. "Fine."

Mycroft smiled. "Fine. I'll see you there tomorrow. Goodbye, Mr. Consulting Detective."

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock returned, focusing back on the double homocide in front of him. Oh, this was brilliant!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello, once again! Sadly, I believe updates shall steadily slow down, as school is a bitch :) However, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I expect 2 or 3 more chapters! Thanks for reading!**

It was an anniversary. Three months. Mary wanted to celebrate. So, John went to her flat at seven, rang the doorbell, and kissed her as she opened the door.

"Ready?" he asked, smiling as she stepped into the hallway. She was beautiful.

"Yes. Where is it that we're going?"

"It's a surprise," John returned secretly, grasping her hand and leading her to a cab. The ride was short, and John spent it caressing Mary's hands. Peaceful and familiar.

Mary gasped as the cab stopped. "You got reservations at Bourjois?"

"I wanted it to be special." John blushed, helping her out.

"Thank you!" She replied earnestly, pulling him in for a kiss. John relented, chucking at her enthusiasm. Mary had a love of France. She spoke of it often, and had paintings of Paris all over her flat. One day, John hoped to take her there. In fact, he had many plans for their future. He could easily imagine the wedding (she looked stunning), the house (maybe with a nice garden?) and even children; a boy and a girl, sandy-blonde hair, giggling and laughing together. It sounded perfect to him.

"Well? Let's go!" Mary pulled John towards the door, grinning as she gave the name. They were led towards a small table in the corner of the dim resturant. Swarthy, peach drapes covered the tall windows, and golden accents reflected the gas lights. John felt his heart swell as he looked at Mary across the table. In the soft, golden glow, she was simply etheral.

It was the most interesting case he had had since the bomber in Soho. It had kept him occupied for a full four and a half days, and it was in the final stages. As Sherlock gazed around the posh resturant, he couldn't help the excitement claw its way through him. This was it. Spectacle or not, he would find Mr. Dahl tonight.

"Holmes," he muttered to the hostess, following her diligently to a corner table. Here, he could watch the whole restaurant and not many could see him. Perfect. He began to scan.

Unhappily married, affair, running from the mob, high, the list went on and on. Everyone in the room had something they were trying to hide, a secret they covered with a false face. Sherlock hated false faces. Why were people so scared of the other mediocre people they surrounded themselves with?

After ten minutes of searching, Sherlock had yet to locate the ilusive man. Exasperated, his eyes fell to a table in the corner. A woman with reddish hair and a man with sandy hair, both laughing and drinking wine. Wait. He knew that hair. Yes, it had gotten a bit greyer, but it was his hair nonetheless.

John.

Fuck.

John took a sip of the wine and chuckled at Mary's wide eyes. Their food had arrived and the portions were massive.

"John, I hope you aren't trying to fatten me up to eat me," Mary joked, winking.

"Wouldn't need to," John retorted. Mary feigned offense, but couldn't stifle her laughter for long. They began to eat, and John moaned in appreciation. It really was fantastic.

For a few minutes, there was no conversation, and the two simply enjoyed each other's company. The atmosphere was soothing and John's senses were overflowing.

What was he supposed to do? Ignore John? Obviously, the most rational option. Confront him? Insane. Cause a diversion? Possibly...but no. He was on a case. John was simply enjoying the night out, apparently with a girlfriend (serious, from the air between them and the price of the resturant. An ex-army man wouldn't bring a first date to Bourjois.) Speaking of, why was John back? Sherlock had assumed he would be in Afghanistan for a while longer. Dishonourable discharge? John wasn't like that. Injury? Sherlock felt his blood grow cold. Had John been injured? Had his worst nightmares come true?

_Shut it, _he quickly told his subconscious, stifling the thought. John was obviously not incapacitated, and Sherlock had no right to care anymore.

He tried to pull his eyes off John and continue searching the room for Mr. Dahl, but his eyes kept drawing back to the happy couple. Each smile he sent her made Sherlock's blood boil.

No right. Stop.

After ten minutes of giggling, smiling, and overall utterly disgusting gestures made by John and the woman, Sherlock had enough. His self-restraint had never been a high point.

Abandoning his table, he snuck into the kitchen, giving a wink to the manager on duty. Sometimes his looks paid off. Shrugging off his jacket and loosening his tie, Sherlock donned an apron, grabbed a tray, and began to make his way around the room. As tedious as waitering was, Sherlock was able to catch words of John's conversation.

"-is a wonderful idea, John!" said the woman.

"Thanks, I just thought with the-"

The jabbering of a fat man near him cut off his hearing, but the woman nodded and John grasped her hand across the table.

Now or never.

He walked up to the table, putting on an overenthusiastic smile and a northern accent. "Can I get you anything else?"

The woman looked up. "You're not our server," she said hesitantly.

"Switching shifts," Sherlock said offhandedly. "More wine?"

Finally, John looked up.

The evening had been a success. Mary seemed more in love with him than before, and their relationship had been solidified. They had spoken about their own plans, surprised at how similar they were, and Mary had even mentioned sharing a flat. John was elated. He felt Mary's eyes on him at all times, and her smile was radiant. Something had changed in their dynamic. It was as if everything had finally fallen into place, and a life together was a definite possibility.

Until a waiter asked if they wanted more wine.

John looked up, prepared to ask for the bill, when he found himself staring into the oh-so-familiar eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

John knocked over his half-full glass as he jumped backwards. Mary was startled by the noise, but Sherlock simply smiled.

"What?" John whispered. "_Sherlock?"_

"Ah, hello, John," Sherlock said cordially. "And who is this lovely woman?"

"What are you doing here? Oh, um, this is Mary. My girlfriend."

Sherlock put out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Charmed," he said with a smile. Mary took his hand, and gave John a questioning look. "John, dear, who is this?"

"He's-"

"A friend from childhood," Sherlock cut in.

"Oh! John never mentioned you."

"Really?" Sherlock gave John a raised eyebrow.

"Never came up," John murmured, looking uncomfortable.

Mary looked between them for a few seconds, then gasped. "Wait, are you the Consulting Detective or something?"

Sherlock looked surprised, but nodded.

"My mate Sally talks all about you!" She frowned. "She paints you as quite a bit ruder."

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle. "Ah, Donovan. Charming woman." He turned back to John. "We should catch up sometime, John." His smile was all wrong.

John's emotions were still flying around his head, and he had yet to gasp the full meaning of the event at hand. Sherlock was back. Sherlock Holmes, _his_ Sherlock.

"Yeah, of course," he said.

Mary smiled. "Then it's settled! Sherlock, why don't you come over to my place for dinner tomorrow night?"

Sherlock frowned, and John felt his heart stop. What was Mary thinking? This was insane. "Um, Mary-"

"That would be lovely," Sherlock said with a false grin.

John stood up. "Sherlock?" he asked, "can I talk to you outside?"

Sherlock nodded, and John gave Mary's hand a reassuring squeeze, and walked out of the restaurant, Sherlock following closely.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
Sherlock followed John into an alleyway next to the resturant. "What's this all about?" he asked, "I thought I was being invited to dinner." Snarky was good. Snarky kept his emotions out of the way.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"On a case. You? Why aren't you in Afghanistan?"

"Got shot," John said simply.

Sherlock froze. "W-what?" Sherlock felt his insides clench. Someone had hurt John? _His_ John? He felt the sudden urge to protect John, to stop any harm from coming to him. He wanted to hold John tight and make sure nothing could ever happen. No harm would befall his John, as long as Sherlock was there to stop it.

John gave a smile. "Yeah, not my finest moment..." John shifted and looked uncomfortable. Sherlock wondered what was going through his mind. Did John even care for him anymore?

They stood in silence for some time. John broke it.

"Why did you do it?" he said softly, not looking up.

Sherlock didn't have to ask what John was talking about. "You left," he said, trying to keep the anger and hurt out of his voice. He failed.

"It was a choice. My choice. My dream. You just couldn't accept that, could you?" John got louder with each word.

"I accepted it, but my ways of dealing with pain were a bit different," Sherlock spit out.

"You didn't have to poison yourself!"

"It was the only way!"

"Don't say that!" John pushed Sherlock backwards, the rage seeping into him. He still didn't understand. Sherlock was startled, but he grasped John's forearms.

"You. Left. Me," he repeated, emphasise on each word.

The three words hit John like a bullet, punching him in the gut. He felt every inch of pain that Sherlock had inflicted them with. His mind was suddenly filled with tha teenaged Sherlock, shoulders hunched, looking wrecked as John left for the last time. It was as if his eyes opened and he suddenly got a glimpse of Sherlock's mind. John sagged, releasing some of the pressure on Sherlock. "I know, and I'm sorry. I didn't know you felt that way."

Sherlock laughed coldly. "You didn't know I felt that way? Please, even someone with the most rudimentary skills of deduction could tell. I was naive back then, and I didn't understand the power emotions could hold over someone. Yet you pretend you didn't know?"

"I swear I didn't," John growled. "I would have visited you between tours, sent you letters and emails, and called you whenever I could. We could have gotten through it! But you chose that shit over me."

It was all too much. The anger, the close proximity, and John's eyes glaring into his own. Dipping his head a mere five inches, he pressed his lips to John's.

It was like a flash back in time. Suddenly, Sherlock was in the clearning. He felt John's pliant lips under his, and gained entrance to his mouth with a flick of his tounge. It was bliss. But short-lived.

John pushed away, gasping and wiping his lips. "What was that?"

"A kiss, obviously," Sherlock said, breathing heavily. Why wasn't John kissing him in return?

"Sherlock, no."

"Why not? You wanted it."

"Because my girlfriend is sitting inside, waiting for us to finish our anniversary dinner. This cannot happen!"

Sherlock didn't understand why John was being so irritating. They both wanted it, so why should anything else matter?

"Don't go back to her," Sherlock murmured, moving closer, "stay with me."

John gave Sherlock a shove. "Stop it. Goodnight."

He turned, and walked out of the alleyway.

Sherlock watched the man he loved leave him for the second time, and this time there was nothing to turn to. Nothing but the dirty wall to give him comfort. Somehow, he made his way back to Baker Street without dying, a feat within itself. He kept replaying the scene through his mind, trying to avoid remembering the look of hatred John gave him. Would John want to push him away now? Was that their last meeting? What was Sherlock to do? His mind was filled, and he knew it would be another sleepless night, trying to analyze every aspect of John's speech.

The rest of the evening was nice. Well, as nice as it could go with John trying to hide his fear and lust and sorrow for the man he once (and maybe still) loved from his girlfriend. Mary gave him a suspicious look as he walked back in, asking after Sherlock. John responded simply, avoiding details. No need to worry her. She began to speak, and John was glad he didn't have to think of things to say; Mary led the conversation. He was free to dissect his emotions in peace.

Did he still love Sherlock? He wasn't sure. So many things were left unanswered, so many variables needed to be put into place. And he had Mary now, and he loved her. So why was he so empty? John decided to push the thoughts down and focus on Mary's laugh. What a beautiful laugh. He took a breath and jumped back into the conversation.

After dinner, John went back to Mary's and they made love, but it wasn't Mary's face that filled John's orgasmic haze.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello, all! Not much to say, but I believe this story will be around 6 or 7 chapters total. Enjoy!**

The dinner was awkward, to say the least.

Although John had protested, Mary had invited Sherlock over to her flat. John hadn't spoken to Sherlock since the alleyway incident, yet the man had never left his thoughts. He kept thinking about what his life would have been like if Sherlock hadn't done the things he'd done, and if he himself hadn't gone into the military. Would he have worked with Sherlock? Would they even be together? Or would something have happened regardless, of that fateful day?

Mary had made a delicious casserole, and all that was heard was the clinking of flatware on plate. The few times Mary had started a conversation, Sherlock's answers were short and brusque, taking the conversation nowhere. Eventually, she stopped trying.

John was desperate to talk to Sherlock alone. He wanted to figure out what was different about Sherlock, because something had definitely changed. He wanted to relearn his former best friend, and bring that light back into his life. But could he keep Sherlock at arms length? He knew what Sherlock wanted; the alleyway kiss was proof of that. And John had a steady girlfriend. He didn't _want_ Sherlock. Right?

John internally groaned, No, he was not having some relationship crisis. He was perfectly happy with Mary, and didn't need anything more. Yet he couldn't help but yearn for that long-lost familiarity he and Sherlock now lacked.

But he was John Watson. He could acomplish whatever he wanted, and he wanted both Mary and Sherlock in his life. So, he would achieve that.

John smiled and returned to his food, a plan slowly forming in his mind.

After the dishes had been washed and the leftovers put away, John turned to Mary with a smile. "Mary, I was thinking of taking Sherlock out to the pub, just for some reminiscing," he said, causally. Mary smiled.

"Sounds great! I'm sure you'll reconnect instantly!"

John gave a pained smile. That wasn't how he thought it would happen, but Mary's optimism was always nice. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and motioned for Sherlock to follow him out the door.

Once they reached the neighbourhood's pub, John sat them down at the dusty bar and ordered two pints. He felt he would need them.

"So," he began as the barman got them their drinks, "how's...that thing you do?"

Sherlock looks at him shrewdly. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Your detective business or whatever. Finally put your skills to work?" he joked. Sherlock didn't smile.

"To a degree."

"Well, explain it to me? What is this whole idea?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, as I've found out, they consult me," Sherlock drawled. John could detect a bit of the old Sherlock, the one he knew, hidden in that voice.

"But you're just an amateur, no matter how impressive your deductions are."

Sherlock chuckled. "I've perfected it. I know how the crimes work and how to reach inside the criminal minds and solve even the toughest of puzzles. I get more done in a day than those imbeciles at Scotland Yard get done in a week."

"Yeah, right." John looked around the room, his eyes settling on a young man sitting across from a pretty woman. "Fine, deduce him."

"What?" Sherlock looked confused.

"You heard me. What can you tell about him?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man. For a few seconds of silence, John thought Sherlock wasn't going to answer, but then he began:

"Roughly twenty years old, German citizen yet is dating a Spanish woman. Rich background and family, uses the money to impress the girl. Long term...but problems have arisen due to an outside force...Ah. The girlfriend is having an affair with..." He pointed to one of the bartenders.

John smiled. Sherlock hadn't changed. Well, he'd become a bit more courageous, but he's still the same man.

"Was that adequate?" Sherlock asked. The tone was pompous; Sherlock knew it was more than adequate. However, John could detect a sliver of uncertainty.

He nodded. "Brilliant!"

"Not what people normally respond with."

"What do you mean?"

"My deductions, as you call them, are usually returned with a slap, or something to that nature," Sherlock responded casually.

"How-?"

"I observe. It isn't my fault most people are too dull to notice what I do."

"How many cases have you solved?" John asked, changing the subject. He didn't want to spoil their time together, but he couldn't help feeling a bit miffed that Sherlock found him dull.

"Not many. I've started very recently. A hundred or so, most likely. But I also take private cases, although those are tiresome. I avoid them whenever I can."

"You just pick and choose?"

"Of course. I don't wish to waste my time on an embezzlement whilst a murder is happening across town." Sherlock grinned.

"Murders are better, I assume?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Of course. Does that scare you?"

"No! Of course not. It's just funny, I suspect. Putting it into perspective like that." John giggled, taking a sip of his beer.

Sherlock looked wary, but eventually cracked a grin.

"Sounds like fun, actually," John muttered, mostly to himself. Sherlock caught his voice.

"You should come one day," he said, the words rushing together as if he hadn't intended for them to slip out.

"Really?"

"Of course. I'm in need of an assistant anyway. I absolutley refuse to work with the imbeciles at the Yard."

"That sounds great!" John was incredibly happy. He wanted to re-learn Sherlock. The man had become so much more interesting, and that was saying something.

Sherlock gave a hesitant smile. He opened his mouth, but a chime from his pocket interrupted him. John followed his hand as he pulled out a cell phone, his eyes lighting up as he read whatever was on the screen.

"Is Mary expecting you anythime soon?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. They had only been out for an hour or so. He had plenty of time.

Sherlock grinned and pulled out some money, slapping it on the table before standing up. "Well," he said, pulling on his scarf, "don't just sit there. Are you coming or not?"

John's eyebrows knitted together. "Where are we going?"

"A case, obviously!" Sherlock nearly cried, "no time like the present!" He reached out for John's hand, and without knowing quite why, John took it.

Sherlock had never been prouder as he strode into the crime scene with John on his tail. He had grown accustomed to the looks of disgust on the faces of the officers, and the sparse glances of pity, but this shock was new and welcomed. He wove through the crowds o officers and immediately knelt down next to a small sheet.

"Sherlock wait-" he heard Lestrade say from behind him. Sherlock paid him no heed, ripping the lumpy sheet presumably covering the body out of his way-

-Only to be confronted with an arm.

A single arm-from shoulder to hand-twisted at an awkward angle. It was a mans, judging from the size of the wrist and shape of the fingers.

"And why have you called me here for an arm?" he asked, standing up and glaring at Lestrade.

"Because it's part of a body. We've found body parts all over town, and the DNA on all of them are from the same man."

"Body's at the morgue, I assume?" Sherlock waited a single second for Lestrade to respond before turning to go, motioning for John to follow.

"Wait!" cried Lestrade, grabbing his wrist, "who is this guy?" He pointed at John, who blushed.

"I'm-no one," he said modestly, at the same time as Sherlock said "John Watson, my assistant."

"Assistant?" Called Donovan from across the street, "since when do you have an assistant?"

"Since everyone here became so inane that I was unable to endure your pathetic deductions," Sherlock retorted.

"And wait, aren't you May's boyfriend?" Donovan continued, walking over. Sherlock huffed in irritation.

John smiled and nodded. "I think we met once, at a New Year's party," he replied jovially.

Sally let out a brief chuckle. "What's a man like you doing with a wanker like him?"

John frowned. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock pulled him away. He didn't want John to leave. Not yet, at least. He had to show John how smart he was, and it was getting late. If he was going to convince John to work with him, he would have to pick up the pace. Thank goodness John came willingly, Sherlock didn't know if he could handle a conversation with Donovan.

"Come along, John! Places to go!" He hailed a cab and quickly headed towards the St. Barts mourge. John was silent, and not in a comfortable way. The tension in the small place was palpable. He placed a hesitant hand on John's thigh, but the man quickly pulled away.

"Sherlock, what's this about?" John asked lowly.

"What's what about?"

John rubbed his face. "This! Sitting in a cab, about to go examine a body, when it's the second time I've seen you in years!"

Sherlock frowned. "Is something wrong? Did you not want to do this? I wasn't lying back there; I am in need of an assistant. You are perfectly adequate."

John chuckled. "Are you sure we can do this? Be simply friends?"

Sherlock freezes. Could he? Could he contain the emotions that threataned to overwhelm him after years of being repressed? "I believe we can. After all, we did once. Think of it as a new beginning."

John acquiesced, visibly relaxing. They rode the rest of the way in a silence much more comfortable than the previous one.

They arrived at the hospital and Sherlock swept out, his coat trailing behind him. John sighed and paid for the cab wondering if Sherlock was always like this. Yet he couldn't seem to care. He stumbled after the man in question and followed him down hallway after semi-familiar hallway-it had changed from his time-until they arrived in a stark room filled with tables. A small mousy girl stood in the corner, her eyes lighting up as Sherlock walked in.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked, blushing at her obvious interest. "And...?"

"John Watson," John said politely, "I'm his...colleague." Didn't want people getting the wrong idea. Not if he himself was threatened by those same emotions.

No. Mary.

John tooka breath and followed Sherlock to a table near the end.

"Explain, Molly?" he asked the woman, who scuttled over and pulled off the sheet. John was faced with a gruesome sight. It was a headless torso with two legs and one arm, all pieces spereated and dirty. John looked to Molly for explanation as Sherlock pulled out a pocket magnifying glass and began to examine it.

"Um, his name is Derek Hale, as we've found out through the DNA. 45, and a plastic surgeon who worked here. I knew him...he was nice." Molly let out a breath of air. Sherlockk gave her a look and she continued. "Anyway, the left leg was found first, in a dumpster in an alleyway off of Lavington, two days ago. The right one was found across town under a tarp in another alley. The torso and arm were-"

"Placement's not important," Sherlock cut in, brushing her out of the way. Obviously random." He turned to John, a bright smile on his face. "So tell me what you find."

"What?"

"You heard me. What can you glean from this body?"

John took a deep breath and began to look. "Well, the body was cut up after death...there wasn't a lot of bleeding involved. No cause of death is certain, but it could be something with the head? Since that hasn't been found yet. Oh, and he probably knew his attacker...lack of defensive wounds." John looked up. "How'd I do?"

"Brilliant," Sherlock said causally. "Really good, John. Of course, you saw nothing important, but-"

"Fine, fine, I understand. What can you see?"

"The killer was a man, one who knew Hale but wasn't close to him. He lives in London and owns a car. He also most likely has a-of course!" Sherlock pulled out his phone and typed in a number.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock said, ignoring John. "I need a list of all of Hale's patients with husbands. I can pick it up tomorrow." He flipped the phone closed and grinned at John. "So, what do you think?"

John smiled, unsure of how to word his emotions. It was all so much; the bodies and the cabs and Sherlock himself. Instead, he nodded.

John thought he caught a glimpse of a small smile, but Sherlock quickly turned away from him, asking Molly about a riding crop. John felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

"John?" Mary's voicee was tinny in the phone.

"Hi, Mary. We're just finishing up, I'll be back soon."

"I love you," Mary said. John could hear the smile in her voice.

"I love you too, sweetheart," he whispered in return, ignoring Sherlock's flinch. He closed the phone and turned to his friend.

"Sherlock, I've-"

"Yes, I heard the conversation, John," Sherlock snapped, walking towards the door without a thought sent towards poor Molly, who didn't look the least bit put out.

"No need to be snappish," John muttered, following him. He saw Sherlock's posture slump and then straighten to a pole-like stance as he turned around.

"I'm sorry for my outburst, John," Sherlock said stiffly, avoiding John's questioning gaze, "I would appreciate it as well if you accompanied me tomorrow to interview suspects and victims."

"Y-you want my help?" John asked, amazed. He had thought Sherlock had just pulled him along for the ride. Now he wanted assistance?

"Yes. It has proved...beneficial." Sherlock donned a look that showed he was clearly as confused as John by the words coming out of his mouth. However, he composed himself quickly and looked back at John, waiting for an answer.

"Well, of course! I don't have work tomorrow. Where should I meet you?"

Sherlock smiled ruefully. "221B Baker st," he replied, moving closer to John.

"Time?" John breathed, as his personal space was slowly filled with the familiar scent of Sherlock.

"Will ten work for you?" Sherlock murmured in return.

John simply nodded. What was going on? Why was Sherlock so close? Why wasn't he moving away? The last question had an obvious answer: Sherlock was intoxicating.

"Excellent," Sherlock closed the space between them so his lips were flushed with John's, and he kissed John passionately, letting his tongue flit across John's motionless lips before breaking away and striding down the hallway. "Evening!" He called, his coat flashing behind him as he turned the corner out of John's line of sight.

John was frozen for minutes after Sherlock left. Eventually, his stance was broken by Molly walking out of the morgue.

"Oh! Are you alright...?" She trailed off.

"John, and yes. I mean...no...oh god I don't know!" His mind whirling and his lips tingling, John didn't even bother to say goodbye as he rushed out of the hospital, face burning.

What was going on?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello again! A few points: First, This chapter and all following ones will now have no beta except my subconscious. School has prevented my own beta from working, and it will make updates far and few between for me. Sucks, but that's life.**

**So if you see any mistakes or think something would sound better a different way, don't hesitate to tell me! I love feedback!**

**Enjoy!**

John rapped on the door to 221 Baker St, his nerves on edge. Last night he had dutifully avoided Mary, and had gotten very little sleep. However, when Sherlock opened the door, grinning like a madman, the fatigue and nervousness washed away, suspense and excitement replacing it.

"Well, come along John!" Sherlock shouted, rushing past John onto the sidewalk.

"Um, where are we-" John began.

"To the house of Hale's last patient, obviously! Really, you must keep up!" Sherlock tutted, hailing a cab effortlessly. He gave John a smirk and John followed him into the car that immediatly pulled up. Once they were en route, he turned to the detective expectantly.

"What?"

"An explanation would be nice," John gave him an expectant look.

"Why? Isn't it clear?"

"Sherlock, not everyone has your brilliant mind."

Sherlock smirked. "Fine. Plastic Surgeons are paid quite a sum to alter people's looks. That being said, there is bound to be some resentment from patients who are displeased with the outcome. Hence, the last person to see Dr. Hale on business; Shannon Fullers."

Satisfied, John sat the rest of the ride in peace, trying not to feel incredibly happy to be with Sherlock again. It wasn't right for him to like spending time with Sherlock more than Mary. Even though he had become reconnected with Sherlock for a very short period of time, Mary seemed to pale in comparison to this charismatic man.

Lost in his thoughts, John didn't realise the cab had stopped, and blushed faintly at Sherlock's confused expression as he stood outside John's door. "Aren't you coming?"

John nodded, and stood up, gazing at the Kensington home. The shrubs near the door were immaculately trimmed and the stone pathway was buffed within an inch of its life. The entire area had an air of the attempt to impress, and John found it fitting that the owner had gotten plastic surgery.

Sherlock, of course, gave the opulence no heed, and strolled up to the blue door, rapping it twice. John quickly hopped up the steps, and the door opened. John and Sherlock were faced with a short, burly man.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, his face drawn in an angry snarl.

Sherlock put on a charming smile. "Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard. May I speak with your wife?"

The man opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but a pale hand came from behind and placed itself on his shoulder, pushing him out of the way. The doorway was soon filled with a woman John suspected to be Shannon Fullers. With her thick, blonde hair and shining green eyes, she looked like something out of a magazine, albeit a model with quite a bit of facial reconstruction. Her cheekbones were prominent and pointed, yet utterly fake. John couldn't help but compare them to Sherlock's, but stopped that train of thought quickly. It wasn't worth it.

"Ah, Miss Fullers. We'd like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?" Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock brushed past the thin woman, and John tried to placate her and her harried husband before following him into the extravagant entrance hall.

"Of course!" Shannon said, coming to her senses. "Let me prepare some tea. Martin, dearest, will you show our guests to the lounge?" Shannon gave a radiant smile before gliding off into the house. With a grumble, Martin Fullers led John and subsequently Sherlock into a large lounge. John sat down on the plush settee, feeling as out of place as he had at Celine's home, and he couldn't help but cringe at his younger self for being so naive about everything.

"...This is a lovely home you have, Mr. Fullers," John said, awkwardly. Fullers just glared, sinking into a chair. A silence smothered the room, yet it seemed as if Sherlock and Fullers were unfazed. Sherlock kept a shrewd eye on Fullers, and vice versa. John still couldn't help but wonder what he was doing. He was sitting in a gorgeous home with his (ex-friend? ex-boyfriend?) tracking down a murderer, yet he would eventually return home to his beautiful girlfriend. Despite the facts, he wondered if he was doing something wrong with his life. Surely this wasn't normal?

As if on cue, Shannon walked in with a tray of teatime delicacies. She began to pour the tea, and Sherlock began the questioning.

"Mrs. Fullers-" he began.

"Oh please, call me Shannon!" She gave a cheerful smile and handed him a cup and saucer.

"What was your relationship with Derek Hale?"

Shannon stopped pouring. "Has something happened to poor Derek?"

"Why would you say that?" Sherlock questioned. "Unless you knew something?"

"No! He had seemed jittery during the last appointment. He always craacked a joke, yet that time he was strangely silent. He wouldn't look me in the eye! What happened?" She turned to John.

"Shannon, I'm sorry, but Mr. Hale is dead. We're looking into his death now." John tried to be consoling, yet Shannon's face still turned pale, and she sat down on a chair, hands shaking.

"Oh god, what happened?"

"Do you know of anyone who may have had a grudge against Hale?" Sherlock asked, brushing off her questions.

"Um, I don't think so, no. He was such a nice man, did so much for my looks." She sniffled. John looked over at Fullers and notice he seemed intent on his wife now.

"Why did you get plastic surgery?"

Shannon blushed, a bit of colour flowing back into her features. "Same as everyone, I guess. I didn't like my looks."

"You were beautiful then, honey," Fullers said consolingly, taking his wife's manicured hand.

Shannon chuckled. "No I wasn't. Dr. Hale helped me see my imperfections, and showed me how to fix them. He was a saint." There was silence for a few minutes as Shannon dabbed her eyes.

Abruptly, Sherlock stood. "Thank you, we'll be off now. John!" He swept off, leaving John to say goodbye to the couple before following his friend into the fresh air.

"Any leads?" He asked as they walked down the street.

"Seven, so far," Sherlock responded vaugely. "Yet none of that matters. What did you make of Fullers?"

"Shady sort of fellow. I didn't see why Shannon had married him. She seems above his level."

"People do odd things in the name of love," Sherlock muttered, and John assumed he was talking to himself, as he lapsed into silence.

After walking briskly out of the residential district, John found his mind drifting back to life in Fawsley. He remembered life with Sherlock and how perfect it had seemed. He wondered if he would ever get it back.

John heard his stomach rumble, and Sherlock glanced down at him, frowning. "What? I gete hungry."

Sherlock sighed and pulled John into a small Chinese restaurant. "Order what you like," he said, sitting them down and handing John a menu. "I'll buy."

John looked over the dishes, his mouth watering. He realised he hadn't eaten since that morning, and it was almost three. "Aren't you eating?" He asked, noticing Sherlock's disintrest in the menu.

"I never eat on a case."

"Well that's not healthy! Get something small."

"No. It interferes with my deductions."

John huffed, but knew when to pick his fights. Sometimes, Sherlock Holmes was too stubborn for words. So, John ordered his dish, and indulged happily when it arrived quickly. "Come to a conclusion yet? Or are you ready to tell me what you've deciphered from our visit?"

"It was obviously Fullers."

"Obviously?" John took another bite of his lo mein.

"Of course. Didn't you see the pictures on the walls?" At John's blank look, Sherlock continued. "In the pictures prior to the surgery, Fullers and his wife both look content. He's smiling with her and relaxed. As the surgery enters their life, he slowly becomes colder and harsher. You can tell he doesn't like her looks anymore by spending a mere five minutes in their presence. He blamed Hale for taking her beauty, and saw fit to dispose of him." Sherlock paused, and John let the information sink in. "The question is why the chopped up body." Suddenly, Sherlock stood up. "Of course! Come on, John!"

Feeling as if this was a continuous occurence, John sighed, paid the bill, and followed his mad ...friend out the door.

Once he hit is breakthrough, everything was as clear as day. With John on his heels, they ended up outside a dilapidated pub, where, if Sherlock was correct, Fullers spent every evening.

True to his pattern, the short man was leaning against an alleyway, a plastic cup in his hand.

"Fullers!" He shouted. The man in question turned. His eyes widened, and he turned for the alley. Sherlock chukled. He was running into a dead end. Literally.

Sherlock swiftly walked into the alleyway, Jhon following behind him.

"This isn't a good idea, Sherlock," John muttered anxiously. Sherlock brushed him off. A conscious would do him no good here.

"Nowhere to go, Fullers. I know it was you, and I know all about your dissatisfaction with your wife. What I don't understand, however, is the need to cut up the body. Fetish? OF course not. Power play? Maybe, but the killing was enough." Sherlock paused, noticing how riled up Fullers was becoming. His cheeks wer taking a scarlet bluster and his hand was moving towards the back of his pants. "Ah! I know. You were _scared_." Sherlock sneered at the word. Fear was such a dull motivator. "Scared of having the body identified, so you decided to cut it up and hide the parts all over town. And you thought no one would connect you and your wife since there was so much time between her last visit and the body identification. Clever, but not clever enough." Sherlock smiled in triumph.

"You won't tell anyone!" Fullers shrieked, pulling a gun from his pants. "I won't let you!"

"Put it down, Fullers. Your time is up. Nothing you can do about it."

Fullers gave a maniacal laugh. "Want to bet on that?" He clicked the safety off.

It was a split-second desicion. Sherlock lunged forward, his momentum propelling him far enough to push Fullers to the ground, but not before the gun went off. He heard a cry of pain, and a wash of cold ran through him.

_John._


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Hello again! Chapter 6 at yours service! Once again, unbeta'd and such nonsense, so any mistakes don't be afraid to tell me! Enjoy!**  
_

_It was a split-second decision Sherlock lunged forward, his momentum propelling him far enough to push Fullers to the ground, but not before the gun went off. He heard a cry of pain, and a wash of cold ran through him. _

_John._

Sherlock felt as if he were in a dream. He knew he had moved from Fullers, and knew he was kneeling over John, pressing his hands onto John's abdomen, but he was free of any pain. It was as if he was watching a movie of someone else's life. It was wonderful.

But the façade soon fell apart. Sherlock fell crashing down to Earth, hands shaking and tears running down his face. Stupid. He wasn't the one who had been shot. Trembling, blood-covered fingers reached for his phone and quickly dialed 999. After giving shaky directions to the operator, he turned his attention back to John. John, who was currently lying in a growing pool of blood, breaths coming out short and staggered.

"John, don't you dare die on me!" He cried, "I-I just got you back. I'm not losing you this easily!"

"C-call Mary..." came John's faint voice. "Let her know..."

"O-of course. Anything, John."

"So...tired..."

"No! Don't sleep! Please!" Reduced to begging. Pitiful. Only John Watson had this much power over him, and that terrified Sherlock to no end. "Don't leave me."

The paramedics arrived in a blaze of flashing lights and shouting voices. John was ripped from his arms, and they wouldn't let Sherlock go in the ambulance with him. Sherlock shouted. He cried, he even attempted to force his way through the barrier of doctors and nurses. Anything to be by John's side.

Soon, a pair of strong hands were grasping his shoulders. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Lestrade. Of course. They had been on a case. But that didn't matter now. John was gone. Again.

"Fullers is your man, and he should be coming too pretty soon. Get one of your minions to clean up the mess." He pointed in the vague direction of the body he had thrown to the ground, ignoring Lestrade's sympathetic looks.

"Was John shot?" Trust Lestrade to be blunt. Sherlock could only nod. "Well, let's get you to the hospital. He might want to see a familiar face when he wakes up." _If he wakes up_, Sherlock's subconscious added helpfully.

Sherlock was shuffled into the back of a police car, and with the sirens they reached the hospital in record time, but John was still in surgery. Sherlock complied to a seat in the waiting room, feeling anxiety like he never had before. As the white walls of the room and the drone of the tv fell out of focus, Sherlock became lost in his thoughts, and one thought came forward.

John was in the hospital and it was all his fault.

_My fault, my fault, my fault._

Yet he couldn't bring himself to wish that John had never come into his life. In fact, the days that he had spent with John had been the highlight of his life, ignoring the obvious life back in Fawsley. He had felt a need to get up in the morning, had been a bit kinder, not harrased Anderson as much; he had become a better person, all because of John. He wouldn't give it up for the world. And to think he almost had never seen John again. All because of a silly case, and now look where they were. No. No thinking like that. Focus on something else.

Normally, sitting in a waiting room would make Sherlock quite bored, yet he found that with all of the emotions weighing down his shoulders he couldn't find the time to be bored. Instead, he decided to examine the others in the room and see if their plight was worse than his.

On one chair near a potted plant sat a tall woman with thin blonde hair. She was wearing a business suit and nice heels yet the legs and sleeves were wrinkled and the shoes had scuff marks. Sherlock deduced that she took pride in her appearance and worked a job, most likely as a secretary from the state of her nails, that required nice clothing, but didn't pay well so she only had one or two suits. From the state of her hands, (they were fiddling with her wedding ring) her husband seemed to be in the hospital and as she had a book on the signs of cancer in her purse he had cancer. It was probably severe, maybe he suffered from a stroke, due to the red rings around her eyes showing signs of crying and the tissues that littered the table next to her.

So who had it worse? A young woman whose husband had cancer, or Sherlock whose best friend, if John would let him call him that, attempted suicide?

Sherlock didn't want to deduce that.

Instead of deducing more, Sherlock felt his eyes droop and the urge to curl up and drift into a dreamless sleep became more and more profound. After pushing the urge away for as long as he could, he eventually succumbed, and was blessed with the lack of nightmares.

He awoke to someone poking at his neck. Bleary, he opened his eyes to the face of a young doctor.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, he red hair tied back in a bun and eyes lined with circles. "Dr. Watson is calling for you."

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and bolted through the double doors, not caring if the doctor wasn't following. He needed to make sure John was okay.

Entering a room, Sherlock saw John, haggard and pale, but alive. Thank God.

"Hey," John gave him a weak smile.

"John," Sherlock breathed, relief flooding through him.

"Yeah, I know," John chuckled. "Where's Mary? I'd assume she'd be here to cry over my almost-dead body too."

Sherlock froze. "Um..."

John turned his head. "You _did _call her, didn't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked down. Damn. He should have remembered. John wasn't his any more He was Mary's, and, as sad as it may be, she deserved to know about these things.

Yet a large part of Sherlock had purposefully forgotten the reminder, wishing Mary hadn't existed.

"Sherlock, call Mary now." John's voice was ice-cold.

"But-"

"Now."

Sherlock pulled out his phone. Really, this power was not good.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mary. This is Sherlock. You are...wanted at Royal London Hospital."

"Oh God why? Has something happened?"

"John's been shot." Sherlock couldn't keep a small shudder from forcing its way down his spine.

"I'm on my way," Mary snapped clicking off immediately. Sherlock fought for control of his emotions as John glowered at him from the bed. This wasn't exactly how he'd pictured their reuniting.

"I'm...sorry John," Sherlock said quietly. "I forgot about Mary."

"I figured as much, Sherlock," John scoffed.

"H-how are you feeling?" He turned back to John, giving a tentative smile.

"Like hell. Reminds me of Afghanistan. Two bullets it two too many."

Sherlock didn't respond. The silence that followed was awkward, to say the least. It broke when a haggard Mary came flying through the door, rushing to John's side and covering his face with kisses, whispering rushed declarations of love and praises of his safety.

Sherlock watched, jealousy filling him. He should be that one. He had that right.

_No, you gave up that right years ago. _

Sherlock glowered. Mary finally looked up. "And you!" She stood from John's side. "You caused this! You with your...hairbrained, dangerous ideas!"

"Mary, stop," came John's weak voice.

"No! He is the cause of this! This...this _freak_ got you shot, John, and he has the nerve to stay here another minute!? Get the fuck out of my sight!"

Sherlock looked to John, but only found a pleading look, one that said _please go, we might be able to talk later_. Fine. Sherlock would leave with dignity.

He swept out of the room, his coat flying behind him, trying to hide his pain. Stupid Mary, ruining everything.

The last he saw was Mary crouched next to John, hands interlocked.

_That will never be you, you will always be the one on the sidelines. Why? Because no one should have to put up with Sherlock Holmes._

"John, I don't want you to see him again."

"What? This wasn't his fault, Mary!"

"Please. It...makes me nervous. I don't want to come back here if you..." she paused. "What if the next time you get shot, you don't survive?"

John tried to pick his head up, but his system was flooded with painkillers and other substances adn he found he couldn't be bothered. "Is it Sherlock's fault? Is he the reason you don't want me going back there?"

Mary looked up sharply. "Should I be worried? Was there something going on?"

"No."

"Okay, good."

"Yeah. Good."

The silence was awkward, and John could see that Mary hadn't let it go. It wasnt Sherlock's fault. Of course, he was still pissed Mary hadn't been called earlier, but he had seen Sherlock's face as he'd left the room. It was vulnerable and upset. In the short time he'd gotten to know Sherlock again, he'd become enamoured by the man's spirit and enthralled by his deductions. He felt seventeen again, and he would do anything to keep Sherlock in his life. Besides, the chase had been the most exciting thing in his life. He knew he had a bit of a danger complex, but it was his nature, and it felt like he was back in the game.

"John..." Mary looked at him hopefully.

"No, Mary. I love you, and I understand what you're feeling, but he's part of my life again. I can't let him go a second time. I promise I won't die, okay?" He gave a weak smile, feeling his energy slowly leaving him.

Mary sniffed. "He's important to you, right? But you musn't have been that close, or it must have been a really big fight. Can you-?"

"Stop." John used the last of his energy to sit up. "We are not discussing this. It's off-limits, Mary." He felt his arms shaking, and quickly lay down. Mary nodded.

"Of course. I'm sorry. I just wish you trusted me more."

"I trust you with everything, Mary. You're my life, and I never want you to leave. I'm sorry for what happened, and I know you hate it-God, I would hate it if it was you in the bed-but I'm not going to change, okay? Will you please be okay with this?" He knew he was laying it on thick, hell, he didn't believe half the things he was saying, but he wanted Mary in his life. He _did _love her.

Of course, the small part of his brain niggled that all his words rang false, that he still harboured feelings for Sherlock, but that part was kept shut in a closet and never let out.

Mary smiled and squeezed his hand. "Okay, John," she said quietly. John nodded and slowly let sleep overtake him. Everything would be okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Wait..what's this? A NEW CHAPTER? Crazy, I know. Blame what you wish: School, life, potatoes, but I take all the blame. Enjoy this chapter!**

John got out of the hospital three days later. It was simply a matter of making sure the wound wouldn't break open again, and considering his medical skills, they let him off quickly. John smiled as he walked into Mary's flat; the smells of her life invading his nose. He was truly home.

Yet at the same time, he couldn't help but miss the smells of chemicals and tobacco that seemed to linger around Sherlock. Thinking of the man, John pulled out his phone.

Zero new messages.

He sighed and winced. Not a good idea. Shifting himself to the sofa, he turned on the telly and sat in a state of ennui, eyes moving from either Mary's incessant nagging and bustling form, trying to make him as comfortable as possible, and the newscaster on BBC with a bad head cold.

Neither was an entertaining option.

He couldn't help but think that Sherlock would have shown him something interesting or told him about the affair the newscaster was having, and he felt an empty hole that he hadn't known about grow a bit larger. He sighed.

"Are you in pain, John?" Mary's voice came floating from the kitchen, filled with worry. He pushed away her kind hands, murmuring "'m alright, 'm alright" until she finally let go with only a bit of reluctance.

It was good to know he was trusted.

However, John knew for a fact Mary was smothering him. She lurked in the background, never saying anything, but he knew she still felt strongly about Sherlock. Mary was keeping him on a short leash to make sure he wouldn't run after Sherlock again.

Or was that just the negative part talking? Was Mary really trying to help and he was just being a stick in the mud? Glancing at her, he was struck with the sudden thought: Mary was here, with him.

"Mary, don't you have work? It's a Tuesday," he asked cautiously.

Mary turned back towards him, her smile hesitant. "I'd thought I'd take a few days off, make sure you're all better."

"You've got to get out of the house. I'm not a child. I can handle myself perfectly," he returned spitefully. Wait. Spite? Where was this spite coming from?

Mary looked shocked. "Are you in pain, John? Did I...?" He couldn't bear to see the confused look on her face.

"No, Mary." He rubbed his face. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. I just don't want you stressing out about this. I know you haven't been sleeping well. Will you do something? For me?" He tried to give her a smile.

"How about this: I'll call Sally and see if she wants to have lunch today. I understand you need some time for yourself, and I'm sorry I've been smothering you."

"No!" God, she made him feel so much worse. "I'm worried. But, thank you." He motioned for her to come forward and planted a kiss on her lips. "I love you, dearest."

"I love you too. Now, drink up." She handed him two pills and a glass of water. "I'll go call Sally. Why don't you try to rest?"

John gave a nod of affermation, swallaffirmationpills without the water. He watched Mary bustle around and chat with Sally before giving him a smile and rushing out the door.

When the door slammed shut, John was filled with a sense of despair. He had no idea why; Mary had left, and he was free to do what he wished.

Gingerly, he stood, making sure the stitches wound't break. Once he was certain they were sound, he began to shuffle around the flat, doing menial tasks until he ran out of things to push away the inevitable decisions.

Putting down the brush, he picked up his phone and flipped to the contact.

Should he call Sherlock?

An internal battle raged for what seemed like hours. He weighed the pros and cons, tried to imagine conversations in his head, and even contemplated calling Mike to see if he had any ideas on what to do.

In the end, his cowardice won out and he returned to his nest on the couch.

Yet it was only a few minutes later that he heard a knock on the door. Walking to the door, he pulled it open to see Sherlock standing with his hands in his pockets, hair mussed from the wind, and a nervous expression on his face.

"Sherlock!" John cried. "Come in! It's good to see you." He was grinning like a madman, he knew, but Sherlock just nodded and walked forward, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hall.

"John, I'd like to apologise for my abhorent behaviour at the hospital. I should have informed Mary of your condition much earlier, and I will gladly speak to her on your behalf. However I would still enjoy your company if you wish to join me on cases; I find your medical knowledge invaluble and much more reliable than that provided to me." He said this in a rushed voice, looking down and pausing not once.

John was taken aback. That was not what he'd expected. "I'd, um...of course I'd love to join you," he said, after digesting the information thrown at him, "and I'm thankful for your apology. W-would you like a cup of tea?" He motioned hesitantly towards the kettle, and began to prepare the mugs when Sherlock nodded, a shocked expression still on his face.

"You're willing to return?" He asked.

"Of course! Working with you has been the most exciting time of my life since-" he cut himself off. Best not to dwell in the past. "Anyway, I loved it, and would be honoured to do it again sometime." He smiled at Sherlock.

"Really? I'd assumed Mary-"

"Mary does not make my decisions for me," John snapped.

Sherlock was taken aback. "I'm sorry-"

"No," John sighed, he really was on edge today. "I shouldn't have snapped. I meant, I'll work with you, regardless of her opinion."

Sherlock grinned at that. "Fantastic! There was a murder over on Brixton that Lestrade spoke to me about..."

Sherlock launched off into a tale of murder and affairs, and John felt himself warming up to the tones of the detective. This was infinitely more calming than anything Mary could have done.

When had he started comparing Mary to Sherlock? He shouldn't-couldn't-do that. It wasn't fair to anyone.

Yet Sherlock had already made him laugh and feel comfortable for the first time since the shooting. He was still mad at his friend, of course, but sometimes things like that had to be put aside to feel whole once more.

And John, with stiches in his side sitting at the flat of his girlfriend with his reconciled friend, had never felt better.

Mary:

Mary left the house feeling uncomfortable. John had snapped at her and seemed to be off-kilter. It had started with Sherlock Holmes, and Mary couldn't help but feel a strong aversion to the man. From what Sally had said, Sherlock was a freak with a murder fetish, and from what she had seen, it seemed to be true. He had gotten John shot, for God's sake!

Mary ran a hand through her hair as she entered the restaurant Sally had talked to her about. Noticing her friend sitting in the corner table, she gave a smile and a nod.

"Mary! You look like shit." Trust Sally to be blunt about it.

"I've been better," Mary said with a hesitant smile.

"Is John stressing you out? I've heard doctors can be a handful when they're the ones in the sickbed."

Mary chuckled, taking a sip of water. "Not exactly, but he's part of it."

"Oh God, it's Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?"

Mary nodded and Sally made a face. "Mary, get John as far away from that freak as you can. He's nothing but trouble."

"I've been trying! John says they have some sort of 'history' and I'm afraid to ask what it was." She leans closer to Sally. "What if they were together?"

"No way. Sherlock wouldn't do something as mundane as a relationship."

Mary felt her nerves calm a bit, trusting Sally's logic. After all, she knew this madman better. "Still, John seems to talk about him an awful lot, and when he's not talking he's sulking."

"You should leave him."

"No!" Mary gasped, "why would I do that? I love him, regardless of how he's acting. It's my duty to care for him."

Sally looked dubious. "If you say so...I just think you should get out before Sherlock Holmes takes over your entire life."

"Why do you have such a vendetta against him," Mary asked as a waiter took their lunch orders.

"Do you really want to know?" Sally asked rhetorically, yet Mary still nodded, waiting.

"Fine. It was about three years ago, y'know, when Harry and I were still together, and he randomly comes up to us when I'm at the office and starts insulting us! I told him to piss off but he just gave me that look and said: "I hope your husband's drug problem hasn't given you some sort of disease," and waltzed off. Harry stopped talking to me after I pushed for more information, and when he outed my relationship with Mike three days later, we broke up." Sally put her head in her hands. "He ruined my life, and has made it his sole duty to salt the ground."

"Oh, Sally," Mary relpied, reaching a hand over to her friend. "I'm so sorry..."

"Yeah, but I'm over it now. Just...stay away from Sherlock Holmes, okay? Will you try and help John too?"

"Of course. I don't want anything like that to happen to us."

The conversation turned to lighter material as their food arrived, but Mary's mind was still focused on what Sally had said about Sherlock. Was he really as bad as she made him out to be? She laughed at a joke Sally made and turned towards her sandwich. She didn't want to get between John and Sherlock; the two days John had been with the man he was as happy as Mary had ever seen him. Yet, could she sit back and let him get shot at and have the man spilling all their secrets?

Mary didn't know if she could handle it.

She eventually decided that she would speak to John after lunch, and spent the rest of the hour coming up with ways to approach the issue. If Sally noticed her listlessness, she didn't mention it. And for that, Mary was thankful.

Mary showed up just as Sherlock was beginning to explain one of his more interesting embezzlement cases.

"Hi, Mary," John said, standing awkwardly. Sherlock made no move to follow, instead taking another sip of tea.

"John, what's he doing here?" Mary asked scornfully.

"Take anything Donovan told you with a grain of salt, Miss Mary," Sherlock drawled, finally standing up next to John. He turned to his friend with a smile. "I really must be going, but call me and I'll finish the story."

"I'd like that," John said truthfully.

Sherlock nodded and left, barely giving Mary a passing glance. An awkward silence fell with his departure, and John took a hesitant seat next to the table.

"Um, how was lunch?"

"Fine."

"Good."

...

...

...

"And how is Sally?"

"She's fine."

"That's good."

Finally, the silence must have become too much for Mary, because she turned around suddenly and faed John head on. "I don't like Sherlock."

"I'd gathered as much."

"I don't want you to see him anymore."

"Mary, we've talked about this. I'm not giving him up."

"But he's rude! And mean, and ruins lives. Have you heard what he did to poor Sally? I just...I can't stand you getting hurt, both physically and emotionally. Please, will you let him go?"

John slammed his fists. "No, Mary. I will not. He's my friend, as I've said before, and you can't make me choose."

"John, I'm worried."

"No, Mary. Don't." John turned towards the door. "I need some air."

With that, he left, leaving Mary standing alone in the kitchen.


End file.
